Chapter 17

Vesper

The whistle flew toward me in a lazy arc, glinting gold in the dying light—beautiful, perfect, mine.

Then my chest exploded in white-hot agony.

"Fuck!" The word tore out of me as I crashed against the wall, my telekinesis collapsing like a house of cards. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—I'm out of magic, you absolute idiot—"

The whistle dropped.

It hit the floor with a sharp, crystalline ping, bouncing once before landing squarely on a shard of broken mirror. The sound rang out clear and bright in the cramped room, impossibly loud in the silence.

For one frozen heartbeat, everything stopped.

Then the door exploded inward.

Light flooded the darkness, harsh and blinding. Heavy boots thundered across concrete. Voices shouted commands I couldn't process through the roaring in my ears. My hands, slick with blood and trembling from magical exhaustion, lost their grip on the ductwork edge.

I fell.

Strong arms caught me mid-drop—werewolf strength, unmistakable in the way those hands locked around my biceps like steel manacles. I tried to wrench free on pure instinct, but my body had nothing left to give. My muscles went limp, useless, as the wolf pinned my arms behind my back with casual, brutal efficiency.

"Got her, boss." The voice was rough, satisfied. "She ain't going nowhere now."

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Each one a countdown to something I didn't want to face.

Dante stepped into the light.

He looked different than he had in the warehouse—no, not different. Just more. The veneer of civility he'd worn during our transaction had burned away completely, leaving something colder and infinitely more dangerous in its place. His smile was a predator's smile, all teeth and no warmth, and his eyes gleamed with the kind of greed that had started wars.

Those eyes tracked from my face to the open ductwork above, then down to the brass whistle lying in a pool of sunset on the dusty floor.

Understanding dawned across his features like a slow, cruel sunrise.

"Well, well, well." His laugh was low, almost admiring. "Vesper, you never cease to amaze me. You were this close to freedom—" He held up his thumb and forefinger, barely a centimeter apart. "—and you threw it all away for a five-dollar piece of trash?"

Heat flooded my face. "I didn't—that's not—"

"She really did!" One of the goons burst out laughing, a harsh bark that set off a chain reaction among the others. "Holy shit, boss, she actually stopped mid-escape to steal a fucking whistle!"

"A thief is always a thief," Dante said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy as he crouched down to pick up the whistle. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. "Can't help yourself, can you? See something shiny, and your little magpie brain just shuts down. No wonder you tried to con me with that marble."

He straightened, dangling the whistle from two fingers. "Makes me wonder what else you've got stashed away. The real treasure from that castle—where is it, Vesper? What'd you do with it? Sell it already? Bury it somewhere?"

Rage cut through my exhaustion like a blade. "For the last goddamn time, there is no treasure! That marble was the only thing in the box! I didn't steal anything else because there was nothing else to steal!"

"Liar." The word was soft, almost gentle. That made it worse somehow.

Dante stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket, see the cold calculation in his eyes as he studied my face like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.

"Last chance, half-breed." The slur hit like a slap, deliberate and sharp. "Tell me where the real treasure is, and maybe—maybe—I'll let you keep that pretty face intact."

"Fuck you!" The words exploded out of me before I could stop them. "I already told you—the marble was the treasure! Ask me a hundred times, I'll give you the same answer because it's the truth, you paranoid bastard!"

Dante's expression didn't change. If anything, his smile widened.

"You know what? I didn't really expect you to cooperate." He pulled something from his jacket—a knife, the blade catching the light as he unfolded it with practiced ease. "But that's fine. I wasn't planning on believing you anyway."

He glanced at the werewolf holding me. "Get two more. Pin her to the wall. I want her to see this coming."

No. No, no, no—

Two more wolves materialized from the shadows, their hands like vices on my shoulders, my wrists. Four sets of inhuman strength pressed me flat against the concrete, so tight I couldn't even draw a full breath. My feet barely touched the ground.

Panic detonated in my chest. "What the fuck are you doing? Dante, don't you dare—I swear to God, if you touch me, I'll fucking kill you—"

"You?" He actually laughed at that. "A worthless half-Fae mutt is going to kill me?"

The others joined in, their laughter echoing off the walls like a pack of hyenas. My face burned with humiliation and fury, but underneath that was something far more primal.

Fear.

Dante brought the knife up slowly, letting me track every inch of its approach. The blade kissed my cheek, cold and sharp, just barely breaking skin. A single drop of blood traced down my jaw.

"I've heard Fae are vain creatures," he said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather. "Proud. Obsessed with beauty and status. I wonder—" The knife pressed harder, not cutting yet but threatening. "—how much of that pride will survive once I carve up this face of yours? Will you still lie to me when you can't even look at yourself in a mirror?"

The blade began to move.